The Greek Store in Kenilworth boasts big fat selection

Come Easter, the Diamandas family of the Greek Store in Kenilworth will sell about 17,000 koulourakia, little circles of confection that bring sudden clarification to that “melt in your mouth like butter” phrase. Perhaps it’s because of the top notch Plugra butter used by Steve Diamandas; perhaps it’s because of the heavy cream and Scotch that are also part of the recipe.

The koulourakia is an oh-my-gosh kind of cookie; that’s actually the phrase used by 79-year-old Diamandas himself to describe the first time he tried it at a friend’s house one long ago Christmas Eve. Once he started selling the cookie, he had to buy special equipment to keep up with demand.

People drive for hours to get to the Greek Store (the average commute is 45 minutes, says daughter Lia Diamandas; shoppers often make a day of it). Some customers are the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the store’s original customers.

The shop was first opened by Nicholas Diamandas in 1950, in what was then known as the Greek ghetto of Newark, a tiny section with four stores, two churches and a theater. The store has been in Kenilworth for 30 years, and is especially festive late Saturday mornings, when the breads are coming out of the oven and the counter is spread with samples of stuffed olives, spreads, baklava.

Traditional Greek foods — spanakopita, Greek meatballs, egg lemon soup, eggplant au gratin, moussaka, pastitsio — are made in-house (no preservatives) and then frozen, ready to be taken home and baked. Plus there’s everything else you need for a Mediterranean feast: stuffed olives, meats, cheeses, falafel, apricots, lentils, beans, rice, caper berries. Note, too, the tiny jars of mastic gum, taken from the sap of a tree grown only on the island of Chios; the gum is used in baking, but also boasts healing qualities.

A corner of the shop is crammed with tchotchkes and gifts, Greek CDs, religious artifacts. “We carry everything from cradle to grave,” says Steve Diamandas — from baptism gowns to the wheat traditionally served at Greek funerals.

He still comes to the shop every day, with no plans to retire. He suffers from “Greek Man Syndrome,” says his daughter — no hobbies.

She once suggested golf.

“You want me to chase a small ball with a stick?” he asked her. “I don’t think so.”The Greek Store